Chapter Three
Reclamation of the War Bride
Apparating to Number Four Privet Drive was a simple task, yet Voldemort's lip immediately curled when he arrived and took in the muggle neighborhood for the first time. It reminded him of an advertisement that he'd seen in America during the fifties. "Progressive", uniform homes without claim of character or austerity to their appearance. It was meant to be an attainable dream of equality, of a dream life that was beautiful and desirable, so that every home had things like yards in the front and back large enough to play in, and a driveway in which one could park a fancy car. All of this was only an illusion. It had been something fed to the public in the following years of World War II, a placating gift to offer the men who serve in the War, and the women who took up roles of the men. For those who served, men and women alike, it was an offer to wipe the horrors of war from their minds. To the women specifically, it was meant to make their traditional roles as women more appealing after they tasted equality.
Voldemort knew exactly what kind of place this was, and he almost pitied Potter. He almost wondered how such a boring, unassuming place produced a defiant child like Potter, but Voldemort knew without needing to delve into anyone's mind. He knew intimately that places like this were a mere façade of civility and perfection. Truthfully, this houses each hid their own dark, morbid, twisted secrets. In all likelihood, if Potter grew up in a place such as this, the chances of his childhood being as unpleasant as these homes were groomed multiplied.
Voldemort did not know how to feel about something that put Potter in a similar category of human being as him. In his mind, people were grouped by statistics, and those statistics were made by the circumstances that shaped them. One's parents put them in a category that somehow determined success, as did one's wealth, and social status, etc. Voldemort overcame all of those statistics, and though he did not like the parallels that he shared with the boy that banished him from the plane of living, Voldemort saw the foundations of yet aner capable of reaching the same heights of ambition and success as him. This could only amplify his need to put the boy on his side, of course, and meant that Potter as an ally only put more power in his hands.
Voldemort still did not like sharing anything with his enemy, but he supposed he could use a tad more honey in his initial plans to away the boy to his side. Was it genuine sympathy? No, but if the boythoughtit was, it could be more effective.
The Dark Lord crossed the street to the house he apparated across from. Whatever secrets he initially believed hidden behind those doors, they paled woefully in light of what hefeltfrom the property before he ever even set foot on the grounds. He felt the blood wards almost immediately, gently prodding him as if an effort to push him away. If Voldemort knew Dumbledore, then the words had been inscribed in the blood of the boy's mother, the defiant wretch, and buried somewhere nearby.
Blood wards were tricky things. They were very powerful, and did not need affection to keep them strong, only the devotion of a warden to keep their ward, and nothing more than that. Often, simply the duty if taking in a child of one's family was enough. Yet though these should have been powerful enough to keep him out with feeling of duty alone, he walked through them like one walks through spiderwebs. Anemic as they were, they tugged on him pitifully, and broke. Voldemort had little experience in wards that were not ancient things, or at least a few generations old, but he had never seen something so sickly, before, let alone felt…well, he crossed the threshold that the wards attempted to keep him from, and—
[AWASH IN TEARS AND SCREAMS]
[HE ACHED REMEMBRANCE]
The saying that walls remember, or listen, or whatever people say about a building being an observer are absolutely true. They don't always hold memories, or echoes of the past, but in the same way some people linger as ghosts, some memories linger in a home. These memories, these feelings, lingered in every inch of Number Four. From every blade of grass to every nail anchoring the accursed thing together, the taint of a child in despair bore itself into the house. Voldemort knew that there was only person that it could be, and for all that he believed Dumbledore to be (a masterful manipulator, a shrewd and unbending leader) he had never truly believed that the headmaster would truly leave a third child to suffer under the care of Muggles.
Tom Riddle's past was so impactful, he might have been able to live a normal life if Dumbledore had listened to his pleas for help. Instead, he became a powerful Dark Lord. Voldemort could not regret becoming as powerful as he had become. He was immortal, he had wealth, and sanctuary and supporters. He could not disagree that the path Dumbledore set him upon had not been so agreeable once he learned to guide himself through all of life's tribulations. He was so far from the orphan boy that he had been. Still, Voldemort did not like attributing anything that he had become to Dumbledore. And he still hated the fact that aneducatorhad left him in dire straits simply because he did not like him. Once would have been enough reason to cast the man into damnation, and he repeated the mistake with Severus Snape. Severus Snape had parents, but his Muggle father treated both his mother and son abysmally. He grew up outside of the Great Wars, and lacked that trauma, and certainly no one had tried to exorcise Severas; the scars of childhood still marred the Potions Master, however. Voldemort and Severus were given miserable childhoods because of Dumbledore; Dumbledore learned enough from Tom Riddle becoming a Dark Wizard to try turning Severus onto his side. In truth, the only reason that wasn't effective is because the man's loyalty belonged only to Lily Potter nee Evans. Without the presence of that woman and her son, Severus would be on Dumbledore's side simply for the reason that Voldemort killed the only person he truly cared about. That should have been enough, but the man took it one step further in the form of Harry Potter.
Voldemort did not know the form of abuse, or neglect, that took place in this home. He didn't know the full extent. Potter exhibited so much defiance and stubbornness that he originally mistook these for being the brashness of youth. But in light of the miasma wafting off of Number 4 Privet Drive, it was not out of the realm to realize that perhaps his response to trauma was to develop a distrust and rebellion to authority figures. Dumbledore managed to make himself something of a radical authority figure by involving (to a very limited extent to give the illusion of inclusivity) Potter in his plots. It hardly changed any of the Dark Lord's plans, but it meant he needed to tailor his approach to fit a Potter who might respond abnormally.
Like Severus, Potter would be particularly vulnerable to manipulation. For example, Severus wanted someone to acknowledge his existence and personhood; Voldemort did so and gave him full access to an apprenticeship in Potions, praising him whenever they crossed paths. Severus bloomed and grew wonderfully under the attention. As fully-grown wizard, he was competent and powerful. Voldemort classed him as one in a hundred-thousand talent. Potter had even greater potential, if all reports were to be believed.
In a way, Dumbledore left Potter ripe for the picking. The Dark Wizard was grateful, of course, but as he finally reached the door of the Dursleys' home, he felt an ugly writhing in his gut. What Hell could modern Muggles create? What would he encounter? What would he see? What sort of child had formed under the pressure of this falsely perfect family?
[A WORTHY OPPONENT]
Voldemort gave a politerat-a-tat-taton the door. A few moments later, the door opened to reveal who appeared to be the blonde caricature of Lily Potter. The resemblance was there in the most commonly shared features, but they were exaggerated in a way that made it evident that Lily Potter had been the perfect, pretty sister, and this one the homely, plain one. In a fair world, this Muggle would have all of the brains while her sister sported merely average intelligence. The man knew that Lily Potter possessed an uncommonly bright intellect and he even considered courting her to his side before her marriage. This blonde looked averagely intelligent, and it became clear that life embittered her from the day her sister was born, and left her no reprieve even when he killed Lily Potter.
"Yes?" the woman answered warily. She eyed him dubiously, her blue eyes brightening slightly as she took in his attractive face and the way his suit clung to his form. The display of wealth and attractiveness probably appealed to all of her ambitions, ones laid to rest by motherhood. Voldemort almost pitied this miserable, sad woman.
[VAPID WRETCH]
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Dursley. I am Hedley Amherst, a realtor looking to research what makes this development so successful compared to similar ones. My company is looking to build a neighborhood just like this one in Northern Surrey," he lied.
"Oh, you want to model a new neighborhood after our own humble one?" she asked rhetorically, playing coy and surprised to mask her own pride being stroked. The false modesty rang gratingly in Voldemort's ear, and in a such period of time, he knew exactly what kind of guardian this woman was to Potter. Despite never being as good or special as her sister, she still wanted the finer things in life that hard work alone could never get her. She wanted to be a person of class and influence, with ultimate dreams of being someone as rich and elegant as Lady Malfoy, no doubt. It was ironic that Lily Potter was the one who married a rich noble; as if the woman hadn't had enough. All of those frustrations would have single recipient in the form of Harry Potter. Mrs. Dursley would have made sure that the boy understood that he was nothing, that he would never be good enough to fit anywhere or amount to anything. She wanted the child under her care to feel the same way that she had all her life. She would never amount to anything despite the plays she continued to make, but while irritating, manipulating those with illusions of grandeur was child's play.
"It is very lovely, and safe place. I haven't seen another quite like it. Your garden in particular is fantastic," he said diplomatically. The compliment garnered a smile from the rakish woman as if she had been the one to care for the garden, when Voldemort could practically taste the ambient magic dripping off of the plants. Potter had tended to these plants with more care than his Herbology grade indicated. "I know you must be busy, Mrs. Dursley, but I really would love to interview you about your home and what it is like to live in this street."
"Why don't you come in for a cup of tea," she offered with a demure smile, shifting her body to invite him into her home. "We can discuss the matter as thoroughly as you would like."
Voldemort resisted the urge to grimace at her efforts to flirt. He put on a friendly smiled and entered the home of Harry James Potter, the wards tugging on him gently before giving up.
"Thank you, very much, ma'am."
Walking through the home of the Prophecy Child proved to be more illuminating than observing Mrs. Dursley. Visually, everything looked far more Muggle than even he was used to seeing in homes like Severus, who kept everything as magic-free as possible for his Potionsmaking. Nothing was out of place, everything simultaneously too bright and too plain. Unlike the garden, Voldemort could not sense a single part of Potter's presence. He thought there might have been a tiny bit of it in the room Mrs. Dursley disappeared into to prepare tea—she gave him permission to sit on her pristine couch and apologized for the wait, but oh it won't take but a few minutes to brew a pot—but looking around at the walls, the mantle, and every single surface, it became obvious that Potter was not a part of the family. There wasn't a single picture of him, though there were plenty of this house's other occupants. Voldemort stretched his senses carefully (making sure that Potter could not sense him). The only place he felt the presence of the boy was back towards the front door, where they had passed by a door under the stairs. Probing at the stale presence, Voldemort found it to be the source of a child's misery.
[UNWANTED AND ALONE]
[FREAK AND UNLOVED]
[WAKEUP AND LIVE AND GO TO SLEEP AND HOPE FOR]
[WANTING LOVE]
[WHY AM I UNLOVED]
Voldemort needed to breathe through the lingering thoughts and feelings of a young Potter. He had grown up very alone, starved both of sustenance and affection. The Dark Lord doubted that anything had changed; manipulating Potter would be easier than he originally thought, but he really needed to stop and rethink his approach, because the Dursleys and Dumbledore had already done so much of the work for him. Severus divulged that Potter was being left isolated and ignorant about the world outside of the words. The Dursleys simply isolated him.
[I WILL GIVE YOU EVERYTHING YOU WANT]
[AND YOU WILL BE WHOLLY MY SLAVE BECAUSE OF WEAKNESS]
Voldemort would have killed the Muggles by this point. Severus would have been plotting the best way to remove them, likely by poisoning. And yet Potter remained here. He found that…curious.
Mrs. Dursley eventually returned with the tea carried on a tray, accompanied by tea and sugar. She played the role of consummate and magnanimous host as she poured the tea, and made his to taste. Voldemort would give her approval for having all of the gestures and motions correct; she simply seemed to lack the grace and elegance for the class that she was trying to portray.
"Thank you, Mrs. Dursley, it is perfect," he praised her after taking a sip. The tea was on par with what one would expect from a middle-class Muggle. Nevertheless she seemed pleased by his words.
"Thank you for joining me for a cuppa," she replied, something turning slightly brittle beneath her smile. Was she lonely too? Bored, or lost in life? "Please feel free to ask me whatever you would like. I would love to help you and your company."
"To business then," Voldemort responded, taking another sip before setting the tea and saucer back onto the table between them. "How long have you lived here, Mrs. Dursley?"
"Oh let me think—it feels like we just moved in yesterday," she said airily, eyes glazing over as she cast her mind back into time. "I suppose it's been nearly twenty years now. It was the spring of '78. Yes, when Vernon received his first promotion. How time passes…"
"That is quite a bit of time," he acknowledged. "I know you live here with Mr. Dursley, but no other details. Do you have children here?"
"Yes, we have my son, Dudley. We are so very proud of him!"
Mrs. Dursley continued in great detail about her son, Dudley Dursley, who was a little older than Potter, attending a private school where he was a part of their wrestling team, and very smart. Voldemort made an ambiguous sound to indicate that he was paying attention to their conversation at hand every now and then. The more she spoke, the more he understood what role each member of the family played. Mr. Dursley, the boring working man who provided everything, Mrs. Dursley the gossiping homemaker, Dudley Dursley the most perfect son anyone could want, and Harry Potter…the secret of the family. A house elf, or simply a child shunted into the shadows. Maybe a mixture of both, if his lingering presence over the garden and the cupboard were indicators.
"This is the only home my Dudders has ever known," Mrs. Dursley said, at last bringing them back to their main topic of conversation. "I've worked hard to make it perfect for him."
Voldemort cast his appraising gaze around the home. He was beginning to feel like he had all of the details he needed from this woman and this home.
[DISGUSTING]
[REVOLTING FORMALDEHYDE TASTES]
"So I see," he respond mildly. He took the tea up once more, drinking half the cup while it was still warm. His business with this woman was near its conclusion. He simply needed to know what her reactions to direct references would be like. "Is Dudley your only child?"
"Oh yes," Mrs. Dursley answered. "I never needed more than one child. It can be difficult to handle having a sibling."
Voldemort's mouth nearly twitched because it explained absolutely everything about this household. To think that a key chess piece in this war suffered his entire childhood because of a sibling rivalry that transcended death. It was as amusing as it was ridiculous. And so very sobering.
"Of course, children are certainly cruel to one another in the endeavor to survive and be successful in life. It is only natural," he told her. Mrs. Dursley blinked in surprise, looking a little speechless.
"I-I suppose," the woman replied. She looked conflicted, and pained by the admittance. No doubt she was thinking of her own sister who only lived long enough to marry a rich noble and produce a single child. Did she consider Lily Potter a tale of success? She died, and left her child orphaned and homeless. Mrs. Dursley married a boring working man, had a child, and took in the orphan of her sister. Was she successful? Voldemort didn't really care either way. He would make Potter a success, one day, and that success would be used to support his efforts in controlling Britain. Eventually he would aim for the world, but Potter's lifespan was not guaranteed quite yet.
"I am glad you understand. Our purpose is always to survive, and to grow stronger," Voldemort continued. "I present you with an offer that will allow you to do just that."
"I don't understand what you're talking about," Mrs. Dursley said with a slight frown. "What kind of offer? Are you trying to buy our home?"
"No. I would like to remove Harry Potter from your care. If you allow me to do it without arguing, I will not kill you, or your family," Voldemort told her bluntly. "If you don't, I promise each one of you will suffer long, painful deaths."
What she did not know was that one day, they would suffer long, slow deaths anyways because of their treatment of someone with magic. Voldemort did not feel one way or another about someone being abused by their relatives or their guardians. He understood that it made them that much more easily manipulated, and useful to him. But it was against his principles to allow such a thing to happen. They would walk away for now, and if they were wise, they would make themselves scarce and leave the country.
"I—" The woman's voice squeaked. She swallowed, a bead of sweat forming at her temple. Mrs. Dursley had a strange look in her eye like a horse that had been startled, and wanted nothing than to lash out and scream at him. The threat against her family had been made, however, and she was wise enough to control her urge. "Are you one of his kind?"
"I am the most powerful of his kind in Britain," he told her honestly. He relished in the fear etched into the lines of her face. Beneath his glamor, his non-human senses longed to taste the air, to taste her fear. He resisted the urge. "I killed your sister, and her husband. I tried to kill that boy too, but it failed. A pity."
He studied her curiously, watching the woman squirming and screaming internally. Surely there was a cry in her throat just begging to get out. Mrs. Dursley was trembling.
"What do I need to do for you to let my family live?" she asked hoarsely.
[DELICIOUS REVENGE]
[MAKING HER BARGAIN WITH HER SISTER'S MURDERER]
[SMUG]
"What a pity, I was looking forward to torturing your family into insanity," he said dryly to see if it would get a rise out of the woman. She was braver than he anticipated. Voldemort withdrew the paperwork he brought that would transfer custody of the boy unto him. "Simply sign this, and you will no longer be the guardian of Potter."
She took it with a clenched jaw. Voldemort conjured a Blood Quill and offered it to her. She eyes it like it would bite her. She took it, and began to read through the agreement.
"Will you kill him?" she asked.
"Does it matter what I do to him?" he returned. The woman looked away and signed. She stiffened when she felt the inevitable sting that came with using a Blood Quill, but continued to sign her name. Once finished, the document levitated itself, a seal illuminating itself on the parchment before it vanished. Potter was now his ward. He had the power to approve a marriage contract between them.
Voldemort already knew which type of contract he would use; it was originally created during feudal England, and was used when daughters were taking in by their parents' murderers, and kept so that they could be married for whatever reason that conqueror wanted them for. Voldemort thought it suited his needs perfectly, and while the template was old and outdated, it was perfectly legal. Even modernizing the terms to suit his situation with Potter had not invalidated it. Voldemort still did not trust any other type of contract, but he felt that the laws concerning children and the exploitation of them were heinous. Rita Skeeter's smear campaign against Potter was merely the beginning; the fact that there was a loophole allowing him to arrange a marriage between himself and his ward was disturbing. He hoped that all of these things would show the world that Britain needed to change, that he was not wrong. They would likely criticize him (behind his back, none of them were suicidal enough to do it to his face) for forcing Potter to marry him, but time would prove he was honorable. Voldemort had no interest in bedding teenagers, nor raping them. While all of these "war-bride" marriage contracts required a marital courting period, and consummation, he managed to push period of time for each one to focus on educating his spouse before consummation. Voldemort still did not relish the idea of intimacy with Potter at any age, but he preferred it be when the boy was legal. Technically, the age of consent was fifteen for wixen, but Voldemort preferred the boy be fully legal before ever touching him.
Voldemort comforted himself with the idea of shaping Potter into something completely unrecognizable from the hero he'd been: a spouse of the Dark Lord.
"That's it then?" Mrs. Dursley asked. "We're done?"
"Our business is done," he confirmed.
"You'll take him away from here and you won't give him back?"
"He will never return here," Voldemort promised. No wizard would ever grace the Dursleys' home again.
"We never wanted him," she told him. "He wasn't one of us."
[DON'T RECOGNIZE A DIAMOND IN YOUR GRASP]
[TWO-FACED DOG]
Voldemort had nothing to say on that matter, because everything he had witnessed today made that very clear.
"His things are over here," she told him stiffly, and led him to the cupboard where he had sensed all of those old feelings of despair and sadness from Potter. She unlocked it (who put locks on the outside unless it was a prison). Voldemort could taste the stale tears, fear, grief, etc. There were no signs that someone had ever lived here, but the walls of this cupboard ached with the remembrance of its occupant, despite the only things inside it being a trunk. He shrunk the trunk and put it in his pocket.
"Lead me to him," The Dark Lord instructed the wretched Muggle woman. She nodded jerkily, and shut the cupboard door. She led him upstairs to a room with far too many locks on it to be considered anything but irrational. If he ever doubted whether or not this family made efforts to dehumanize the child, he was proven wrong with the cat flap installed at the base of the door, no doubt to pass food, and very little else. Voldemort imagined that Potter spent very little time outside of this room. Was he even allowed bathroom breaks? Just in case he was not, the Dark Lord mentally prepared him for the stench of a prison.
This boy knows others feared him; I can use that to show him that the wizarding world he loves so much is no different, Voldemort thought, watching as Mrs. Dursley started undoing all of the locks. So many things he could do to twist Potter and show him that Dumbledore was the true villain—he almost could not stop himself from planning when he did not yet have the key piece to his machinations.
She finished with the last lock and Voldemort brushed her aside to enter the room holding Harry James Potter, his enemy, his future ally and spouse.
The odor of unwashed teenager greeted him first, with a slight aroma of depression that lingered thickly on the man's tongue. The room's occupant sat on the singular bed in the room, staring morosely outside while stroking the white feathers of his familiar. He was thin, smaller than the angry boy he remembered in the graveyard. The Muggle home diminished parts of the boy's vibrant soul in a way that seemed just disappointing. Muggles managed to put down this defiant, troublesome child far more effectively than he ever had.
Potter turned, no doubt anticipating his aunt's presence in the room. There was such a dead, defeated look in the boy's eyes—Voldemort hated that expression more than any other he'd seen the boy wear. This child was supposed to be his equal, and after everything he'd done because of this waif, he damn well better prove it.
[WEAK BRAT]
Those green eyes widened, and a spark returned to them, fear becoming anger quite quickly. Voldemort felt his satisfaction upon seeing the familiar defiance and stubbornness return. Potter's mouth twisted into a snarl, and he really wanted to know what lackluster thing the boy was going to say. Alas, he was a busy man and did not waste time.
Voldemort stunned the boy. Potter collapsed back on the bed. The white owl screeched at him, wings flaring up. The Dark Lord ignored the threat display and gathered the rest of Potter's belongings with a wave of a hand. The boy's wand came from a floorboard, and despite his power, fabric remained in the hiding place. Voldemort stepped forward to pull out the infamous Potter cloak that gave Severus many a year of grief. He put it away for further examination. Voldemort waved his hand again, and the window opened.
"Fly to Blackwell Cottage," the man instructed Potter's owl. The bird ignored him to hop down onto the unconscious boy's shoulder, preening his hair in an attempt to wake him up. Voldemort moved closer, and her head shot up to click her beak at him. He was not impressed. "Do as I command, bird!"
She screeched at him, but did as instructed.
The feather protector gone, Voldemort walked to Potter's side and stared down at his enemy, who had never been in more danger before. Voldemort could cast the Killing Curse on him, could put his hand on that thin throat and squeeze all of the life out of him. Potter would be unable to do anything against him. The temptation to kill him was so strong. Instead, the Dark Lord lifted the boy into his arms.
He could have used a charm to reduce the weight, but he wanted tofeelthe form in his arms, to prove that this was real. Potter was so thin and light, his body hardly tired Voldemort. Up close, he could smell Potter's sweat and the lingering fear that laced it. His breaths were deep and slow like sleep, and for a moment, biology relished the closeness as if it were intimacy. The Dark Lord promptly told biology off. Perhaps one day, he would divulge in basic human needs like touch and relaxation when Potter was cooperative enough to do so safely.
[AT LAST. COMPLETION.]
Voldemort allowed himself the moment to enjoy the moment of triumph, and admitted that Potter always made him more vulnerable, if only because he possessed a tiny shred of his soul in his scar. It was only natural to want that piece nearby, to enjoy the contact they made. Idly, he wondered if consummation would affect them to any great degree. Sex was tricky for wixen in any normal situation. Almost all sex, except for the most clinical, possessed some magical component to it.
"Are you going now?" Mrs. Dursley asked, interrupting the ruminations of an eternally curious mind. He looked at her, wondering if she regretted what she had done, if she would miss the presence of this child in an way.
"Yes, I will go now," he answered. With a well-earned prize in his arms, Voldemort turned on his heel and apparated out of Number 4 Privet Drive. The last threads of Lily Potter's sacrifice snapped futilely against the action, but Voldemort merely broke them like one walks through a spider web. Without Mrs. Dursley's love or loyalty, they could hardly hold him.
Once they were, gone, there was no longer a charge for the blood words to protect, and they collapsed like the last breath of a centurion.
[THIS IS WHAT IT MEANS TO WIN]